Career of Evil

“What are you going to — where is it?” asked Robin.

“Not far away,” he said, showing her on the map. “I’m going to need a cashpoint first.”

Was he actually going to pay for a massage? Robin wondered, startled, but she did not know how to frame the question, and nor was she sure that she wanted to hear the answer. After pulling in at a cashpoint to enable Strike to increase his overdraft by another two hundred pounds, she followed his directions onto St. Mary’s Road, which lay at the end of the main street. St. Mary’s Road proved to be a perfectly respectable-looking thoroughfare lined with estate agents, beauty spas and solicitors, most of them in large detached buildings.

“That’s it,” said Strike, pointing, as they drove past a discreet establishment that sat on a corner. A glossy purple and gold sign read THAI ORCHID MASSAGE. Only the dark blinds on the windows hinted at activities beyond the medically sanctioned manipulation of sore joints. Robin parked in a side street and watched Strike until he passed out of sight.

Approaching the massage parlor’s entrance, Strike noticed that the orchid depicted on the glossy sign overhead looked remarkably like a vulva. He rang the bell and the door was opened instantly by a long-haired man almost as tall as himself.

“I just phoned,” Strike said.

The bouncer grunted and nodded Strike through a pair of thick black inner curtains. Immediately inside was a small, carpeted lounge area with two sofas, where an older Thai woman sat along with two Thai girls, one of whom looked about fifteen. A TV in the corner was showing Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? The girls’ expressions changed from bored to alert as he entered. The older woman stood up. She was vigorously chewing gum.

“You call, yeah?”

“That’s right,” said Strike.

“You want drink?”

“No thanks.”

“You like Thai girl?”

“Yep,” said Strike.

“Who you want?”

“Her,” said Strike, pointing at the younger girl, who was dressed in a pink halterneck, suede miniskirt and cheap-looking patent stilettos. She smiled and stood up. Her skinny legs reminded him of a flamingo’s.

“OK,” said his interlocutor. “You pay now, go private booth after, OK?”

Strike handed over ninety pounds and his chosen girl beckoned, beaming. She had the body of an adolescent boy except for the clearly fake breasts, which reminded him of the plastic Barbies on Elin’s daughter’s shelf.

The private booth was accessed down a short corridor: a small room with a single black-blinded window and low lighting, it was suffused with the smell of sandalwood. A shower had been crammed into the corner. The massage table was of fake black leather.

“You want shower first?”

“No thanks,” said Strike.

“OK, you take off clothes in there,” she said, pointing at a tiny curtained-off corner in which Strike would have had great difficulty concealing his six foot three frame.

“I’m happier with my clothes on. I want to talk to you.”

She did not seem fazed. She had seen all sorts.

“You want top off?” she offered brightly, reaching for the bow behind her neck. “Ten pound extra, top off.”

“No,” said Strike.

“Hand relief?” she offered, eyeing his flies. “Hand relief with oil? Twenty extra.”

“No, I just want to talk to you,” said Strike.

Doubt crossed her face, and then a sudden flash of fear.

“You police.”

“No,” said Strike, holding up his hands as though surrendering to her. “I’m not police. I’m looking for a man called Noel Brockbank. He used to work here. On the door, I expect — probably the bouncer.”

He had chosen this particular girl because she looked so young. Knowing Brockbank’s proclivities, he thought Brockbank might have sought contact with her rather than any of the other girls, but she shook her head.

“He gone,” she said.

“I know,” said Strike. “I’m trying to find out where he went.”

“Mama sack him.”

Was the owner her mother, or was it an honorary title? Strike preferred not to involve Mama in this. She looked shrewd and tough. He had an idea he would be forced to pay well for what might turn out to be no information at all. There was a welcome naivety about his chosen girl. She could have charged him for confirmation that Brockbank had once worked there, that he had been sacked, but it had not occurred to her.

“Did you know him?” Strike asked.

“He sacked week I come,” she said.

“Why was he sacked?”

The girl glanced at the door.

“Would anyone here have a contact number for him, or know where he went?”

She hesitated. Strike took out his wallet.

“Twenty,” he said, “if you can introduce me to someone who’s got information on where he is now. That’s yours to keep.”

She stood playing with the hem of her suede skirt like a child, staring at him, then tweaked the tenners out of his hand and tucked them deep into her skirt pocket.

“Wait here.”